Flashbacks

2002  

They say that the flashbacks won’t last.

            My lungs feel caked with mud and I struggle to breathe. I cough violently, spraying bits of blood across the dying grass. When I fall to my knees, I can feel a distinct ache in my thigh. For the life of me, I can’t remember what I did to it.

            But I don’t believe them.

            “Get up!” The order is drowned out by the sounds of chaos and war. It takes me a moment to realize that the man is speaking to me. As I push up from the ground, the world begins to spin. Why is everything so goddamn blurry?

            If it’s not dreams, it’s flashbacks.

            An arm wraps firmly around my waist and pulls me onto my feet. My legs feel like they’re melting into hot mush. I lean into the man for support. I don’t have a clue who he is, but I’m grateful that he’s here.

            And if it’s not flashbacks, it’s dreams.

            The ground shakes slightly beneath my boots and I can hear a round of innocent shouts from behind us. I’m used to the sound of screams, it’s almost easy to ignore them now. A house in the distance is glowing a soft orange against a dark midnight sky. The flames are dancing and twirling like ballerinas. It’s really quite beautiful.

            “Would you like cream in your coffee, dear?”

            The man sets me down next to the side of a shack. “Stay here,” he says, and then he’s gone. My eyes travel to my left pant leg, to the source of the sharp ache. It’s covered in a foul mixture of mud and blood and I realize that I couldn’t leave, even if I tried.

            “Andrew.”

            I rip open the fabric and examine the wound. It’s a deep slash covered in pus and God-knows-what. The sight of it churns my stomach. Lucky for me, it has stopped bleeding. I tilt my head and rest it against the wall behind me. My eyes flutter closed as I struggle to filter out the pain.

            “Andrew, are you listening to me?”

            Sometimes it baffles me that reality still exists. It feels odd to go about my daily business, almost as though I’m bound by shackles. I do try, I do, but it hasn’t been getting any easier.

            “Sure, Cathy, I would love some,” I say absently, running my fingers lightly over the white scar that runs along my knuckles.

            “Are you scared?” His face is an inch from mine and I can smell the pungent aroma of alcohol and tobacco on his breath.

            “No, Sir.” I stand up straighter and tighten my jaw.

            Cathy wraps her hand around my shoulder and rubs it soothingly. “Are you feeling okay?” She sets a coffee cup in front of me. When did she make coffee? I bring my lips to the cup and take a long drink of the bitter liquid.

            “Okay. Yeah,” I manage to mumble as I set my cup back down.

            He grins, displaying his yellowing teeth. “That’s what I like to hear.”

           

2003

Shots pierce the air from every direction. “Get down!” someone yells, and I am quick to oblige. My body hits the ground hard.

I cover my ears with my hands, but the noise doesn’t cease. It never does.

            My finger rests lightly on the trigger of my gun and I wait. The waiting period is long and painful, but I don’t move a muscle.

            My fingers shake against my temples, ever so slightly. The tremors reach my palms and, eventually, my wrists. I shove my hands into the pockets of my pants in an attempt to cover them up.

            My boots dig into mud as I run through the streets, turning down alleyways and paths I don’t recognize. I’ve been running for a while now, the burning in my legs confirms that, but I don’t dare stop.

            Cathy wraps her arms around me, rubbing soothing circles on my shoulder. She’s whispering something, but I can’t hear.

            I turn a corner and feel my legs kick out from under me. Less than half a second before I hit the ground, I throw my hands out in front of me and land on my elbows. Ouch. I twist my head over my shoulder, wondering what I had tripped over. When my eyes fall upon a dead boy, I shudder. He couldn’t be more than ten years of age.

            I push Cathy away and make my way towards the bedroom. I can’t be around her right now; I need to be alone.

The room isn’t dark enough, so I pull the window curtains shut and lock the door. I curl into a ball underneath the bed sheets and squeeze my eyes shut. My head feels like a beating drum, and I press my fingers to my temples lightly.

            Crawling on scraped hands and weak knees, I make my way towards the boy. He’s lying on his back; eyes wide open. His expression makes him look terrified, and I find myself wondering what had happened to him. Dried blood cakes the left side of his head and he’s missing a hand. I fall back on my knees and press my hands together near my heart, praying for the boy.

            My body jolts and begins to shake uncontrollably. I struggle to control it, but it’s useless. I can vaguely hear Cathy knocking on the door over the sound of my grinding teeth.

2004

           

            “I can’t take this anymore, Andrew. I can’t take you shutting me out any longer.” Something about her words snaps back my reality. The words spill from my mouth before I realize what I’m saying.

            “Are you leaving me?”

            “Yes.”

            “Alright then.”

            “Don’t leave me, John. Stay awake, you’re going to make it.” I continue to plead with the bloodied soldier lying beside me as we make out way through the streets. I mostly mutter the same thing over and over, but I find that it helps me to stay calm. The truck we’re riding in hits a bump and I lose my balance, tumbling over top of injured men.

           

            Cathy’s gone now. I don’t remember her leaving, but all her things have been taken. Except the purple sweater I bought her a few years back for Christmas, it’s still hanging in he closet. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it.

           

            A loud chorus of shots rings through the musty air.

            My hands clutch to my ears, begging the noise to leave. I know it won’t, but still, I plead with myself. A realization hits me with the force of an explosion. During the war, the only one way to silence a gun was with another gun. With one hand still clutching to my ear, I reach into my bedside drawer blindly and wrap my fingers around the cold metal of my handgun.

            The shots continue from every direction and I stay low, lying next to John, so close that I can smell the distinctness of death on his breathe. “Andrew?” he says hoarsely.

            “Yeah, buddy?”

            “What’s going on?”

            I don’t know how to answer the question, because who really fucking knows anyways. But it’s John. He deserves an answer. I open my mouth to speak, but the sound is drowned out by a nearby explosion.

            I find myself running my fingers over the trigger. Flirting with death, I suppose. It would be a quick out, an easy out. It would put silence to the images in my head that have been haunting me for years.

            The room I’m lying in is dimly lit and dusty. There’s a woman standing beside my bed, pouring water into a dirty glass. “Where am I?” I ask, struggling to sit up. Every muscle in my body groans as I do so.

            “The hospital, or at least, that’s what they call it.” Her voice is muffled, as if she’s talking through a pillow. Curiously, I bring my hand to my ear and come across dried blood. It’s not as much of a shock as it should be.

           

I press the gun to my heart. Then, ever so shakily, I raise it to the side of my head. Either way would work. I toy with the idea for a short moment, moving the gun back and forth between my chest and my temple. Temple will do the job just fine.

            The enemy is in sight; the only thing that’s left to do is shoot. I aim my gun, close one eye, and rest my finger lightly on the trigger. I’ve never killed a man before, but there’s a voice in my head that’s lingering.

            Do it.

            I steady my shaking fingers and squeeze. Bang.

            Bang.